As Remote As the Silver Sea
by DinahWas
Summary: AU. 1940's. Bo is an heiress and Lauren, the mystery woman she encounters - where else - at sea. Here for the practice.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Another writing EXERCISE. Totally AU. Anything Goes in this yarn of an heiress at sea and a chance meeting with a fellow passenger, a mysterious and alluring blonde. The year is 1941 and anything can happen, even something as improbable as love. Seriously, I'm here for the practice - so be nice._

_Lost Girl belongs to the creators of the show. I'm just swimming in their pool._

* * *

**Prologue**

As often as there are tales of love to hit the silver screen, (like some word-slinger's _Lazarus_ stuck on repeat and resurrected over and over from the reject bin of a Culver City back lot,) we, as popcorn addicts, flock hungrily to them anew and over-indulge in a hack writer's black and white view of romance: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl in the end, big dance number, _swoon_ to black. _Intrepid reader,_ you may sigh either in relief or exasperation for this potboiler is no different from those serial sing-a-longs except that the romance upon which we lightly trip begins with a girl running from a boy before meeting a girl in a place as remote as the silver sea, in a time between time, and as chock full of clichés as a screwball comedy from the old RKO.

But let's not turn our attention to the machinations of a long dead picture studio but to the glamour and guts of this fable, one that begins at this very moment with an immortal femme fatale (dark? beautiful? with a hint of the devil in her walk?) that dines on the lust of unexpecting humans. She travels with her faithful and very human sidekick, a recently retired hoofer from the dance halls of a forgotten Manhattan. Indulge, _if you are willing_, the lush life of a dilettante with the body of an Auburn Speedster—all fenders and _vroom_—and the soul of an unwilling poet, professionally lovelorn by nature and, as it relates to affairs of the heart, a very lost girl. Welcome to once upon a time where hearts, like rules, are both made and broken.

* * *

**November 1941**

"Eighteen months, 14 days, and two and a half hours." Kenzi rattled it off like a laundry list, her voice calm and disinterested.

Bo looked up from _Pride and Prejudice._ "Non-sequitur much?"

"That's how long we've been having our adventure on the high sea." She got up to stand, pacing aimlessly the living area of their suite. "…And how long it's been since we left the best hooch in all five boroughs."

"So," Bo dropped her book on the side table with a purposeful thud. "You _can_ count. Let's have it. You've been holding onto this since, since…"

"_Valparaíso_." Kenzi's voice poked at Bo with the sting of the pointed end of a sword.

Bo sat back on the wingback couch, rigid, crossing her arms across her chest, sending an icy stare to her ward. The union between the heiress and the tin pan alley rent girl had been unexpected; and, as many subsequent stories between Bo and Kenzi, theirs began with a bartender named Mickey, Rocco, or Dutch and ended with a hangover with all the pain and punch of a hairpin turn on the Coney Island Cyclone. Bo ran from life, Kenzi to it; it was a match made in, well, heaven, if heaven intersected at the corner of Down-and-Out and 42nd Street.

"You can't run forever, _cookie,_" Kenzi continued.

"I'm not running. I'm _discovering_."

"What exactly? I get the floating buffet of life at sea, I do. I get that there are Seven Wonders of the World—and we've seen almost all of them, twice. But all this jitter bugging…" She rushed toward Bo and plopped herself close to her on the couch. "Maybe it's time to hang up the dance shoes...y'know…go home?"

"_Fine_, pick a place. In fact, I'll buy you a map and wherever the dart lands, we'll call it home. Then will you be happy?" She looked away, her chin dropping low. "It doesn't matter. Wherever we go I'm bound to be left, eventually."

Kenzi threw up her arms. "You make me want to get drunk, vomit, and then drink again. And you've been reading too much Jane Austen," she grabbed the novel and fanned its page before tossing it back on the side table. "You're mixing up real life with some jagged cliff near a foggy heath. Wake up, Bo! The only person who will never leave you is me." Kenzi's conscience was a tin can that dented easily and the very moment the words slipped from her mouth, she regretted it. The wince behind Bo's eyes confirmed that Kenzi had overstepped, even for her. Bo bolted from her side and grabbed a chiffon wrap from the one of the open trunks. There were several in the suite, all open as if they had imploded, scarves and lingerie and gowns spilling out like a hundred colorful tongues.

"Wait, where are you going? Where are _we_ going?"

"It seems to me after eighteen months, 14 days, and two and a half hours you'd know how to find yourself around a ship."

"Bo, I didn't mean it. Not that way…"

Bo softened even as she had already made it out to the passageway. "You're right Kenzi. The world is getting smaller by the day…like our state room." Her eyes flickered blue before returning to their natural brown. "And we're running out of ports in a storm."

* * *

Chrome. Dark wood. Lighting that provoked mystery or agitation, Bo couldn't decide which. After storming out on Kenzi, she'd made it to the top deck and the dim embrace of the Schooner Bar, a cozy alcove with recessed seating against one wall and a slender wood-topped bar along another, where she sat hoping not to be disturbed. A gorgeous woman alone in an evening gown naturally invited attention and she was quite a _dish_. She favored evening gowns that sashayed the line between indecent and swanky and Bo didn't care a fig who stared or whispered. Lust rose like steam when she entered and for once, her biology annoyed rather than amused her. _Imagine a succubus being jilted at the altar. _But that's exactly what happened on a balmy, mid-summer's night in a garden near West Egg, lit by the glow of red Chinese lanterns strung high upon a canopy of branches. She hated the smell of freshly cut grass forever after. That was a long time ago and a harsh but necessary lesson, her grandfather had told her that night, _to never fall in love with a human._ _Stick to your own kind. _Since then, she'd given love the big brush-off, left the island, and took up digs in one of the family brownstones on the Upper East. Her blood ran cool blue but her flesh burned white as the Sahara, leading her to nights south of 49th Street: glittery, clamorous, sometimes neglected, just as Kenzi had been when first they met. _Neglected_. Now that was a word that rolled around her tongue like a pair of dice that always came up snake eyes. Bo nursed her dented heart by venting a coolness toward every encounter or experience—natural, man made, human—with the exception of Kenzi, she refused to care about anything. It became her vocation to slither from port to port without a single string; and she held in contempt any reminders, even accidental ones, that once, a long time ago, she knew love, was convinced of it, was ready to marry a human for it—only to have that dream yanked out from under her black silk stockings.

The melancholy tinkling of a piano echoed throughout the Schooner Bar. The barkeep approached. "What can I get you, miss?"

"Dirty martini. Extra olives," Bo responded, not ever making eye contact. _And keep 'em coming_, she mused. She clicked open her clamshell clutch and retrieved a silver dollar coin. She teased it repeatedly between her thumb and middle finger and watched it pirouette on the bar top, encircling the first, second, and third martinis of the evening. Spin and drop. Again. Spin and drop. Each turn taking her farther and farther away from the gravity of her gloom and into the orbit of her own ennui. This low tide sadness made her weary. She thought of herself an ungrateful wretch—the world at her fingertips thanks to her trust fund—and she felt ashamed of herself to have been made a fool on what should have been the overture of a beautiful life. Shame burned into anger and anger, well, made the gin slide like sugar down her throat and fueled her hunger for flesh; and with it, the need to screw this sadness away.

The tug of the ocean made the ship roll suddenly and Bo leaned against her will, hard and heavy, against the bar. She felt the heat of someone's breath before the lump of a body collide onto her back.

"Oh! Hi-de-ho!" a woman's voice sang out in four notes.

The unexpected shove jostled the martini glass out of her grasp, spilling most of its contents on the bar top. Bo turned to give the dame a what-for but was stunned into silence at the sight of the perpetrator: fair-haired, slender, with hooded eyes as mesmerizing as twilight.

The woman looked back at Bo, sharing a similar look of surprise. A wave of yellow hair fell across her cheek, which she brushed behind her ear in a single, sweeping motion with her index finger. She seemed to take that moment to catch her own breath and, while peeking beneath her eyelids, spoke again. "I'm sorry about that. I never seem to quite get my sea legs no matter how many times I sail."

Bo continued to stare at her, her mind as well as her smile, frozen in place. Her eyes slid up and down the woman's boyish figure and the gentle curves encased in a cream satin gown, ready to be swept away like Ginger into the arms of Fred. She was caught in the haze of this woman's perfume, a sweet scent that transported Bo to an open bazaar somewhere on the streets of Bombay, where she often bought jasmine blossoms by the fistful. In the thick of Bo's sudden and consuming admiration she had forgotten how to speak.

Then the woman did something Bo found extraordinary: she leaned in dangerously close, close enough for Bo to peek down the center of her low-cut gown if she had dropped her eyes instead of keeping them steady with the blonde's. Her arm was toned and bare, Bo couldn't help but notice, as the lithe woman leaned over her and plucked a cocktail napkin from a stack behind the bar. Once retrieved, the woman held the napkin aloft between slender fingertips and stopped momentarily before lowering it to blot the droplets of gin surrounding Bo's glass. Not once did she take her eyes off of Bo. All of this happened in a slow, hypnotic fashion, inflaming Bo's desire as if she were King Herod watching Salome perform the mythical Dance of the Seven Veils.

Few things make the reader stop and pause more than a beautiful woman with long legs and a voice husky from desire, whisky, or luck—and we would be remiss not to give such a woman a past just waiting to be shed one story at a time, allowing us to savor and sip her charms well into the final chapters. However, we are just at the beginning, before secrets are revealed and love has yet to happen. This is the moment of ignition, when infatuation sits down in the stool next to yours and begs to know your name.

The woman broke her gaze to catch the eye of the bartender. "Tequila, please."

"You don't fool around, do you?" Air finally returned to Bo's lungs.

"Excuse me?" she asked, less of a polite answer and more of a confirmation that the voice she heard wasn't one merely in her head.

Bo pointed at the bartender who was busy pouring a shot. "Tequila—pretty strong stuff."

The blonde lowered her chin and pointed to the coin in Bo's hand. "And you, you're a gambler...like in the movies, you know?"

Bo heard laughter in the woman's voice.

The woman mimicked a two-bit hustler, a Chicago gangster, _"I'm feeling lucky, Jake. Put the goods on red 19."_ She pretended to toss craps and made a clicking sound with her mouth. _Click-click._

They stared at each other, the blonde pleasantly smiling. Bo was all but lost to her. "Are you drinking to remember or drinking to forget?"

The woman answered with a slight sideways tilt of her head and a smirk that said, _a woman doesn't kiss and tell. _She then took the drink set before her and swallowed the shot in one swift motion, barely wincing, even after she sucked down a lime. She tapped her fingers on the bar top, signaling that she wanted another.

"Your drink choice. I'd expect it of a sailor not from a lady." Bo moved in closer, allowing her fingers to graze the woman's hand slightly, subtle enough that it could be interpreted as unintentional.

"There's a little beach town about an hour south of Tijuana. You won't find it on any map and you can only get there by jeep…" She glanced upward, traces of something warm and far away lit her eyes, perhaps the law was involved—definitely something forbidden—and she'd somehow managed to escape it. Then the glow of nostalgia dimmed as quickly as it came. She gave Bo a low smile and arched a brow. "But that's a story for another time."

A group of women noisily entered the lounge, caught in the middle of a funny story. Bo and the beautiful woman beside her turned to observe the gaggle of girls, stumbling in red with laughter. There was recognition in their eyes: _There you are, come sit here_, they beckoned like hens, choosing a velvet corner as their nest. The tequila-drinking woman waved back and said to them, "Give me a second."

She turned her face to Bo and Bo could see that the color had returned to her cheeks.

Bo spoke first, nodding her head towards the lovely women settling in for cocktails. "I guess my luck just ran out. Looks like you're wanted."

The blonde peeked back at her friends, inciting more laughter, and then looked back at Bo. She smoothed her hand over Bo's and took the coin. "Perhaps another time… _you'll get lucky." _

She walked away knowing as all beautiful women do that she was being watched, every step deliberate and true. No starlight is ever wasted, not even as it disappears into the dawn.

"Wait," Bo called to her, "tell me your name."

The woman did not turn to answer and kept walking, not towards her friends, but out the double doors of the lounge. Bo looked over to the corner. Her friends hardly noticed, the gin between them flowing like a fountain.

Bo felt warm. Everywhere. And there was still a bit of martini in her glass. Bo hoovered the remaining drops and winced as it tickled her throat. She had already hopped off the stool when the doors banged open once again.

"Oh no you don't!" Kenzi stormed towards Bo, coming to a halt only inches away. "Never go to sleep mad and we're mad at each other. I say, let's go to sleep drunk. I forgive you. I forgive me. Forgive and forget – what d'ya say? And I'd like two of what she just had," she shot out towards the bartender. Kenzi put a palm to Bo's chest pushing her back down on the bar stool. "You and I have been sailing too long together." She spit on her palm and extended it toward Bo. "Truce?"

"You know I hate it when you do that."

"It's an oath. Not a blood oath because I don't cut myself for anyone." Her hand was frozen in mid-air waiting for Bo to take it. Finally, Kenzi grabbed Bo's hand and forced it into a handshake.

"There," Kenzi laughed, "now we're made up."

The bartender slid over two martinis which Kenzi drank in quick succession. "One little martini," she emptied the first. "Two little martinis."

Any hope of chasing after the mysterious woman who had the fragrance and mystery of a tropical garden was gone. If she was going to drown her sorrows, she may as well sink to the bottom in the arms of her best friend. Wearily, she sat back down. "Kenzi," she relented, "if we're going down the road of gin and spit, let's at least take our time."

"You got it, sister," Kenzi smiled and turned to the bartender. "Four more, my friend!" She spun around on the bar stool twice before she noticed the glazed look in her friend's eyes. Kenzi looked at the door and then back.

"Who was that long, tall Sally?" Kenzi asked.

Bo shrugged. "Not sure." _But I'm going to find out._

End - Chapter 1?

* * *

Is it just practice or is this going to turn into a real story? Fill the tank with thoughts and reviews and we'll see where it goes...if it goes anywhere.

Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Not sure where this is going. Possibly a series of one-shots. I'll update when I can or if I get _really awesome prompts from you guys._ Just a bit of happiness to help ease the treachery that is the demise of Lost Girl.

I own nothing except the order of words, the typos, and the occasional flight of fancy.

* * *

Even without both their suitcases and steamer trunks crowding the floor, their cabin felt like the smallest on the ship. Theirs was a single room containing two double beds, a small writing desk, an armless desk chair, and a chaise lounge upholstered in a fabric that could only be described as unfortunate. Maybe because both blondes turned heads on the decks and gangways, or maybe because they shouldered a little rank on their Navy whites: Tamsin and Lauren knew luck when they saw it; and the little balcony instead of a porthole was as good as a four leaf clover. Still, Tamsin felt the room close in with each toss of the coin.

The whoosh of an object flying in the air.

The smack of flesh against flesh.

And on and on it repeated without end.

By itself, the rhythmic slapping shouldn't have distracted Tamsin but it did. The incessant flip-smacking was like the proverbial dripping sink; Tamsin skated on the edge of her patience, what little she even had. Her roommate's self-hypnosis dashed any hope that this little adventure on the good ship _Liberté_ would provide some respite to the doom and gloom anchored around Lauren's heart.

Lauren's attention seemed nowhere and everywhere as she lay on her bed, still draped in a silver floor-length evening gown. In profile, she evoked a strange elegance: a cross between an heiress that had just stepped from the canvas of a John Singer Sargent portrait and—as the coin spun in the air—a blonde bombshell on the lam from the mob, the law, or both.

_Flip, smack, flip, smack, flip, smack!_

Tamsin, tall statuesque Tamsin, blonde Tamsin, long and white and treacherous and stunning as the ice-covered oceans of the Arctic, Tamsin. Her wit ran a cool ten below zero, and her eyes shimmered blue and deep like sapphires. Whey they first met, Lauren gasped at her nearly flawless beauty; then Tamsin spoke and she had a mouth like a sailor, a beautiful yet filthy mouth. That Lauren found the woman to be impatient, deliberately detached, and prickly—and still wanted to be friends with her, cemented Tamsin's loyalty to the other blonde. She stood in front of the vanity curling her lashes and decided that Lauren's incessant fidgeting had to stop. "Lewis!" she called out, holding the lash curler to her eye. When she didn't get a response, she shouted even louder. "Lewis!"

"What?" _Flip, smack._

"Stop being pathetic. _Heads or tails, _it's not gonna change. You're working my last good nerve."

The blonde sat up. "What are you still doing here? The gang's at The Schooner."

Tamsin flipped off the bathroom light and entered the room in the mini silk robe she'd picked up in a street stall along the Singapore River. She discarded it as she eased a gown off its hanger and began to dress. "You're in early."

"It's the same, isn't it?"

"For you, maybe," she smirked as she began to shimmy into her evening gown. "There are plenty of willing sailors at sea. You know, Tijuana is ancient history," she said sullenly, referencing the saddest chapter yet in Lauren's young life.

Lauren shrugged, rolling the coin between long fingers.

Tamsin lowered her eyes at her friend. "A girl's gotta eat."

"A girl's gotta _love."_

"Love is a pain in the neck," Tamsin answered with a bit of acid on her tongue.

"So that's it?" Lauren answered, stilling the coin. "We're just food?"

Tamsin cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not even going to dignify that, _Doc._ You're my friend, and I know I'm fae, but I would never treat you like _that._ We've had this discussion years ago."

"Yeah, and it ended with me being right and you being wrong."

"Wrong. It ended with you being drunk and me busting you out of the _hoose gow…_and, you're welcome."

"Thank you, Officer Slamsin."

Lauren set the coin on the night stand that split the two beds, sitting up and planting both feet on the floor. Tamsin stepped toward her, stopped, then turned her back to the bed. Lauren stood and zipped Tamsin's dress the rest of the way up, slapping her hip when she was done.

"So," Lauren sighed. "I'm sure the girls are wondering where you are."

Tamsin crossed over to the desk, putting on the finishing touches: a bangle bracelet, earrings that danced in the light, a soft spray of perfume along the nape of her neck. "Let them wonder."

"Oh, no, Tamsin. You're not—"

Tamsin inspected her reflection in the mirror hanging over the desk, her features steely, strong. "Don't say another word, Lauren."

"Not the _butter bar_ who's been following you around like a lost puppy?" she laughed.

Tamsin spun around with her arms out, searching for Lauren's approval. "Dyson, and he's a friend…for now. Can't two people become friends?"

Lauren gave her a thumbs-up but her brown eyes rolled with faint approval. Her voice lowered and slowed as if all the cheer had been sucked out of it. "Not at sea, Tamsin. Not on a ship on its way back home. Just be careful…or _don't."_

The platinum blonde froze in front of her reflection before turning slowly and returned to Lauren's bedside. She sidled up to her, reaching for Lauren's hand, patting it gingerly. "It's been—what—two years now, Lauren…stop beating yourself up. You did everything you could. Nadia's number came up. Not everyone can be saved."

Lauren eased her hand out of Tamsin's.

Tamsin took that as her cue and stood, her eyes still fixed on her friend's. "She'd want you to be happy; she really would."

Lauren exhaled into a smile. She leaned to the side table and retrieved the coin. "Okay. I get it. Now, get out of here and try not to break anyone's heart. Especially yours."

Tamsin crossed the tiny expanse of their room. She thumped her chest with the palm of her hand. "Impenetrable steel. Don't wait up." And just like that, smiling a Cheshire Cat grin, she was gone leaving Lauren alone, alone as the white foam bobbing on a dark sea.

* * *

How many times had they circled this deck, Kenzi lost count but she knew it was late, later than she wanted to be out here, without food or vodka to sustain her.

"So _Jean Harlow _gave you the brush off two nights ago. It's not like you to play with your food this way…and it's just food, right?"

Bo's eyes searched the deck for any sign of the woman who'd taken her lucky dollar and a piece of heart, though she'd not liked admitting it.

"Say there, Bo, I've just about run out of gas." Kenzi eased her hand out of Bo's elbow and came to a full stop.

"Stop with the hard boiled, Kenz. You got somewhere to go?"

"I haven't worked a deck this hard since I shincracked at The Savoy during Fleet Week."

Bo laughed. "You were the duckiest but those days are way behind you now, _toots._ Onward and upward."

"I'm serious. We've been on this stakeout for a couple of hours, already. Think we can take a breather? Preferably with three fingers of Four Roses and a water back?" Kenzi pouted her lips and blinked her baby blues, pleadingly.

"You go on, Kenzi. I think I'll wander for a bit," Bo smiled, pulling the fur lined collar of her coat close around her neck.

"You sure?"

"You go freshen up. I'll see you for dinner."

Kenzi shook her head and took a few steps toward the doors leading inside the ship. "Don't be late. You know I hate sitting by myself."

* * *

Dinner had gone off without a hitch. In between the two lobsters she devoured, Kenzi trilled on and on about the bandleader she'd run into on her way back to their state room. She'd heard the tinkling of ivories in the dining room and had decided to take a peek. He was skimming the keys playing a flirty little vamp for a nice looking blonde—all neck and gams—as she tapped her fingers on the top of the baby grand, taking the tune through its paces. "This is your intro," he had instructed. "I'll bring in the woodwinds and then the brass…give me the sign and I'll take it back a couples of bars…then it's all you. Think you can handle that?"

The woman nodded. "It's been awhile but I think I can follow your lead."

"Wanna try a few bars?" the piano player had asked her.

"Sure," she nodded, her feet tapping along with the syncopated rhythm he started to play.

Kenzi had been leaning against a tall cocktail round when the ship leaned suddenly, throwing her off balance. The ballroom door behind her swung and slammed noisily just as she knocked over a glass vase, sending it crashing to the floor. They both spun to look at her. Kenzi immediately caught the eye of the man at the piano bench. She had felt as if she'd been tagged "it" in a game of hide and seek. She felt her temperature rise almost instantly.

"You okay there, 'Lil Mama?"

Kenzi had been so fixated on the dreamboat in high-waisted trousers legging it toward her that she didn't take notice of the woman he'd abandoned at the piano a few feet away, nor paid much attention when the same woman made some excuse to cut out of practice early.

Without taking his eyes off of Kenzi, he called out to the retreating blonde. "The first set starts at 9, Miss Lewis. You're a natural." He now seemed to be speaking right to Kenzi. "You're gonna knock 'em dead."

"I hope you're right, Hale. See you tonight."

"And that's how we met…clumsy old me," Kenzi droned on as Bo sat across from her nursing a martini.

"Here, I thought you got lost on your way back to our room," Bo sucked on an olive.

"You remember I told you about _Hannah Brown's_ up in Harlem? Hale invited me, well, us, to sit in on a set there when we get back to New York." Hale had told her the places he and his band shook the walls. _New Year's Eve at The Cotton Club. The night Hale toasted Joe DiMaggio right after the Yankees swept the Reds to win the World Series._ _The Roseland Ballroom._ Kenzi knew at the time she was swooning but decided not to give a damn.

"Just wait until you hear him swing," she said to Bo. "And not just any jook joint beaters…he's in a real band with tuxedoes and everything. I tell you, Bo, if I was Count Basie, I'd be worried."

Bo nodded intermittently to keep Kenzi afloat in her gusher of a monologue that had her stringing stars at the mention of Hale's charms. She was happy for Kenzi's distraction, which only made her ache for the mystery woman more profound. Bo was starting to think she had imagined the whole encounter; after all, how big could this boat really be? She'd explored all the first class decks just for the chance of seeing her again. Her interest was inexplicable; she'd been in the presence of beautiful women before but this one she couldn't shake, wouldn't shake, and the smallest recollection of her inspired the taste of cold strawberries on Bo's tongue and her heart to twist into a tight little knot. No tonic existed that could quell this yearning. If indeed, she had not conjured this vision, then there could only be trouble ahead if they ever did meet—of that, Bo was certain.

_"Viceroys. Chesterfields?"_ A woman's voice broke through the haze of Bo's reverie.

Bo looked up to find a pair of seamed stockings holding up a perky powder puff girl, lit up by a smile as bright as the Fourth of July. Bo swallowed hard.

She chewed her gum lazily, flapping her lashes like Betty Boop.

Bo spied her name tag. "Crystal, huh?"

She nodded and tossed back a bob of blonde waves with a nod of her chin. Crystal flashed her pearly whites. "See something you like?"

When Bo didn't answer, Crystal leaned forward with the cigarette tray that was strapped to her front, giving Bo a clear view of not only her wares but also the _casabas_ threatening to bust the bones on her corset. "Junior Mints? Chiclets? Lucky Strike?" she said, drawing out the word _lucky._

Bo leaned her lips into the blonde's ear. "I don't typically strike out, honey."

Crystal straightened up, and pushed her shoulders back. "Good to know, miss…miss..?"

"_Dennis_…but you can call me—"

"—Bo!" Kenzi butted in.

"What?"

"There he is!" Kenzi pointed at the band leader in white tie and tails leading in the band. Soft applause bubbled through the dining room as they took their places on the bandstand. Kenzi pivoted in her chair, taking notice of the Rosie-the-Riveter in a short skirt hovering a bit too close to her best friend. "Hey blondie, _scram_. She ain't interested."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, lady." Crystal winked sideways at Bo. Kenzi made her disgust known with a Brooklyn raspberry.

Bo sensed the tension rising between the two women. "No need for daggers, ladies. Crystal, I'll take a box of mints." Bo handed her a large bill. "Keep the rest."

Crystal slipped the fifty into her bosom as Kenzi gave her the cold shoulder. She held out a box of mints and as Bo was about to take them from her hand, Crystal moved in closer. "I'm off at midnight. Deck 10. Starboard side near the lifeboats. That is, if you're feeling lucky."

"That dame is only after the lettuce. I can spot a flim-flam from a mile away and that flat-foot floozie's got the floy-floy." Kenzi's eyes burned into Crystal's backside as she moved away and zig-zagged through the ballroom.

* * *

The lights dimmed and pretty soon the entire room swooned, swayed, and floated to _Hale Santiago and his Sirens of Swing. _It was all _honey bees _and _bebop_ and the dance floor bounced with both the elegant and the clumsy. Bo turned down her fair share of requests to take a spin with the random Jake in a starched shirt, opting instead to slowly lose her wits over a bottomless Negroni and the sight of Kenzi's pitter-pattering heart whenever Hale turned and smiled at her. She'd been hosting a silent pity party for a greater part of an hour when the band stopped playing, and Hale sat down at the piano, rekindling the memory of when Kenzi first eyed him that afternoon in the ballroom. The song was decidedly bluesy and romantic. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said as the keys came alive at his touch, "we'll be taking a short break but before we do…I have a little surprise.

"One of the passengers on board stumbled upon us as we were rehearsing and asked if she could sit in on a set. She belted out a few notes and that was it. We knew we had a ringer," he smiled into the darkness of the room. "One song, she said…maybe after you give her a listen you can convince her to sing two."

A second spotlight slowly appeared revealing a fair haired chanteuse draped in a simple sheath, so elegant and fair that the room went silent at the sight of her.

"Ladies and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to Miss Lauren Lewis."

Bo gasped. "Kenzi, that's her."

"Who?"

"Her," Bo stared at the woman beside the piano.

"Her, _her?_ From The Schooner Bar _her_?"

Bo nodded. She started to stand. "I've got to get down there."

Kenzi grabbed her by the wrist. "Bo-bo. Wait. Look around you."

All motion in the ballroom had stopped as every eye, every ear focused entirely on the blonde nightingale that seemed to radiate her own moonlight.

"Right," Bo answered as she plopped back into her chair, fully entranced and mesmerized by the velvet voice and the wondrous way she claimed the room with her song.

_It's not the pale moon that excites me,_ she began, her voice betraying hints of a real and palpable sadness. _That thrills and delights me, Oh no. It's just the nearness of you…_

By the song's conclusion, she'd wrapped the entire room around her little finger and the ballroom exploded with appreciation. She smiled a tight little smile, her cheeks reddening from the attention. Bo noticed one corner that seemed to clap a little louder, that whistled like wolves—_how rude,_ she thought, until Bo realized that the corner housed the noisy gaggle of girls she'd encountered the night she first met Lauren. As soon as Hale escorted Lauren off the stage and over to her friends, the room buzzed with talk about the unexpected songbird.

_Who is she?_

_Where did she come from?_

_My God—she's a looker!_

_How have I not danced with her yet?_

Bo sat motionless, just staring, as a swarm of gentle and not so gentlemen gathered around Lauren, blocking Bo's view of her.

Kenzi snapped a finger in front of Bo's frozen expression. "Bo!"

"What is it?"

"Are you just going to sit there while these monkey suits go after your girl?" she grinned. "We've only been searching for days-go get her!"

Bo rose and made a bee line to Lauren, pulsing the two-row deep circle of Eddies and Jimmies standing between her and the woman who'd shot an arrow to her heart (hey, it's a fable and these things happen!) As if on cue and by her touch, the crowd parted until the only person Lauren could see before her, was Bo.

Bo extended a hand to her, holding it aloft, waiting for Lauren to take it. Lauren looked into Bo's eyes and then to Bo's slender arm, reaching towards the blonde like a promise. The moment had gone on a second too long and Bo, in spite of her nature, began to doubt herself. Lauren had yet to smile at her. Maybe she did, indeed, imagine a mutual attraction, and she'd been wrong. Bo took a step back, feeling her heart sink into her stomach; then she felt it, skin on skin, and fingertips lacing between hers.

Lauren revealed her dimples and the diamonds in her smile. She stepped closer. "You've come to my rescue."

Bo leaned back to get a good look at the woman beside her. She nodded, yes.

Lauren squeezed Bo's hand and closed the distance between them. "What took you so long?"

With a firm grip, Bo led her through the labyrinth of tables, through a throng of zealous admirers, and spirited them out into the cool air of a deserted deck, hoping with every breath that if this was a dream, may she never wake up, may she never meet morning, may this night, like the rush of excitement that coursed through her veins, be everlasting.

* * *

That's it. What d'ya think? If you'd like me to go on, let me know (oh, and I seriously do not know what happens next.) Help a writer out. Write me a bouquet.


	3. AUTHORS NOTE

**AUTHORS NOTE**

Darlings:

I know, _I know_ I owe myself and this story an update. Like our leading ladies, I am a bit lost at sea. The tempest that is called life has me tossing and turning as surely as Antonio and King Alonso—or Prince Eric, if you prefer your storms of the Disney/Hans Christian Andersen rather than the Shakespearean variety.

I am taking a moment to catch my breath and organize my thoughts. Soon, and this is my promise, I will return to the flim-flams of this hard-boiled romance. I will put our heroines through their paces. I will attempt to turn ground round into filet mignon, and resistance into surrender. In the meantime, I beg both your patience and forgiveness until I can come back with a tale worth telling.

May your day be bright, and your inkwells wet.

~dw


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